Upon Your Return (10 page)

Though most people would dismiss her frustration with the fact that duty overruled wishes, Fara wanted it to be otherwise. She wanted to make her own choices to suit her own wishes and not those of others. She forced her gaze to the countryside of La Rochelle. Obligation could be very horrid at times.

* * * *

It had been weeks. She wondered how Grant fared aboard
La Voyageur
. She supposed she did not know much about him besides the fact that while he'd been in La Rochelle, he had certainly been the typical gentleman. Though he had pointed out some of her more daring feats, he'd never acted as shocked as most men would. Either he was not the kind of man to let society rule his universe or he simply did not rush to judgment with people.

She pictured him steering his yacht or at least gazing out at sea with one hand deflecting the glare of the sun while his first mate, George, manned the helm.
Capitaine
Hill was certainly a difficult man to figure out. Would he be the kind to rush willingly into battle for a great cause or the type to surrender easily if the odds were not in his favor? She'd met both kinds of men and spineless ones, like Jean Le Croíx, were not to her taste. But, really…did she know anything about men besides the fact that they viewed women as chattel and a respectable fellow was few and far between?

She remembered when Grant had rescued her from those ruffians, the way he had swung about toward her with an expression of concern that she had never seen on her uncle's face, let alone on a stranger's.

And, why was she even thinking of Grant? It was much too silly to pine for a man she barely knew when Andrew Spencer, a nice gentleman, was in the carriage beside her. She observed him for a moment, noting his lanky stature and dark blond hair.

“
Mademoiselle
, I've heard rumors about a play in town. Might you wish to attend?”

Her attention remained on the scenery outside, but she nodded. “Perhaps.” Then she frowned. She was still in mourning. Her thick black dress clung to her body as a reminder. It would be nearly impossible to appear at such a function and not be recognized. Her grieving period required a custom of staying indoors as much as possible and avoiding social gatherings. Her uncle's timely passing was becoming more of a hindrance on her than his suffocating presence had been. So she was to go nowhere. How very exciting.

Overall, she admitted to herself, that Andrew Spencer was a good companion, but Grant's departure had left her feeling lonely nonetheless. “Have you heard from him,
Monsieur
?”

“I presume you mean
Capitaine
Hill. I do not know the man well enough to receive word of him.”

She frowned. “You are not…previous acquaintances?”

He chuckled. “I fear not,
Mademoiselle
Bellamont. I met him outside of La Rochelle when my carriage took a nasty spill. He was quick to come to my aid and in the few words we exchanged, he happened to mention a certain lady in need of an escort. I hadn't plans at the time so I accepted.”

“Do you have plans now,
Monsieur
Spencer?”

“
Oui
,
Mademoiselle
. I only prefer to spend time with you.”

She frowned again. “You do not know me,
Monsieur
.”

“
Oui
, that is true, and I wish you to call me Andrew.”

She cleared her throat. “Formality is required,
Monsieur
, and I have not known you that long…”

“It will not change our friendship, I hope.”

Was it friendship he wanted? After all, she had learned much of men since she was first betrothed. They did not always keep their word. They were very secretive at times. “
Oui, Monsieur
. I hope that as well.”

* * * *

About a week and a half later,
Monsieur
Spencer came to the house and requested a moment in the library with her. She did not see anything wrong so she consented.

“
Mademoiselle
…you must know something…” His hurried manner worried her. He looked pale and confused.

“What is it, Andrew?”

“I wish to wed you. I want to make you happy as my wife.”

She gasped. “Why,
Monsieur
! We hardly know each other. Why did you not tell me you felt something else?”

“You are still naïve. I feared I would frighten you…”

She frowned. “I am young, yet not that young. I know of men. And I have a fiancé.”

“
Monsieur
Bordeaux has not even stepped in to protect you once since your uncle named the man as your suitor. He is truly not the kind that would care for you well. There have been rumors about him. And besides, it is your decision now that your guardian has passed on.” He shook his head. “But you are young.”

“I told you. I know of men.”

He cocked his head. “Have you ever seen a man unclothed,
Mademoiselle
?”

She could recall that night in the cabin with Grant. But, it wasn't proper for him to ask of such a thing. “I do not know what you mean.”

“
Mademoiselle
Bellamont, I believe you have never accepted a lover…”

“Of course I have not! What does that matter besides?”

“It matters. I could be that man,
ma chère
. I would love you well.”

She looked away from him, feeling a knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not know what to say,” she whispered.

“Say yes. Allow me to make love to you, to make you feel new and wonderful things.”

She would never do that. Not with Andrew Spencer. “I cannot.”

“Why? Your uncle is dead. You have no one to care for you. I will marry you to be in your arms a thousand nights.”

She did not want to hurt this man she'd begun to consider a friend. He seemed so passionate in his desire to marry her. She looked away for a moment. “You are a friend, Andrew.”

“And I could be more. Some marriages are arranged, this I know. Perhaps you might begin to care for me…”

She imagined some ladies might see him as attractive, but she had only considered him her escort. It would be an empty marriage. She would respect him, but feel nothing more.

“Fara…” He leaned close to put his lips to hers, but she turned away.

“I do not feel anything for you in that way!”

He gasped, but quickly recovered. “Very well,
Mademoiselle
. I will say no more.” He turned to take his leave. “Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow,
oui
?”

“Perhaps,
Monsieur
.” After he left, she sighed. Was that all that men wanted from women? It hadn't seemed that way with Grant. Quite often, he seemed to enjoy her company for no other reason than being in her presence. And she could not deny that at the back of her mind, he was the man who kept her from accepting another offer, the only man who made her feel different. With Grant, it was as if she knew him on some other level, somehow connected with him deeper than this reality allowed. Though he was still a very mysterious man. However much she hated to admit it, he was the only man who stirred her emotions and made her wonder how it would feel for him to love her.

Chapter Eight

Several weeks passed, and Andrew Spencer made no more overtures or suggestions of marriage. He did, however, seem more aloof than before, and that made her feel slightly uncomfortable around him. She stayed at the house more and began to take trips to town without requesting his presence. It was an altogether too awkward situation. Perhaps he, too, wanted to be rid of this obligation as soon as possible.

“
Mademoiselle
?”

Fara glanced up to see Rosalie. She had been thinking again and had not heard her nursemaid's approach. “Hmm?”

“There is a man to see you...”

“A man?” The image that rose in her mind was Grant looking out over the harbor from
La
Voyageur
, laughing with her. She was daydreaming again. How silly. She stood and approached the maid. “Where is he?”

“The parlor,
Mademoiselle
.”

“
Merci
, Rosalie.” She crossed the hall to the parlor and observed a Frenchman standing straight with his arms crossed behind him, like a butler might pose. He was of average height, she supposed, but shorter than Grant. She frowned. He looked quite familiar. “
Monsieur
, may I help you?”

“
Mademoiselle
...I thought you might have need of some information.” The man fidgeted restlessly.

“What…kind of information?”

“A ship has come into port in the last several hours.
La
Voyageur
--”

She gasped. Grant's ship. It had been two months since she'd last seen him. Recognition came to her. “You are
Capitaine
Hill's manservant.” She felt ridiculous for forgetting; but, she had only met him once.

“
Oui
,
Mademoiselle
. I am Eric. Unfortunately, there was a duel...we pulled into port and the captain was challenged.”

“Challenged? By whom?”

“I do not know the man's name, but he is most likely a known gentleman.”

She swallowed, the fear rising in her throat. Duels generally had predictable outcomes -- one man dead. Even when one was fought to first blood, accidents were known to happen on the field of honor. “The result?”

“The captain was injured...”

Fara suddenly weaved where she stood and was grateful that he was there to steady her.

“
Mademoiselle
, I only tell you because he's thought of no one else since we left France. I thought you should know.”

“He is...alive?”

“
Oui, oui
. But, getting weaker by the minute. We fear the fever. I thought maybe if you would come and see him, he might realize he has a reason to live...I do not know. We are nearly out of resources. He has been tended by the ship's physician, but he has taken a turn for the worse.” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps I should not have come.”

“No,” she replied, stepping back from his grasp. “Thank you for informing me, Eric. I wondered about him as well...” she said absently, staring over his head at her uncle's portrait. She frowned. “What must I do?”

“You may stay in my cabin, if you please. Whatever suits you...even if you just want to see him, I will accompany you to the ship. Please,
Mademoiselle
. The crew would do nearly anything to see the captain well once more.”

She nodded. “Give me time to pack, Eric.”

“Of course.”

* * * *

July 15, 1863

Eric led her up the gangway and across the deck. Fara then followed him through the companionway, down a flight of stairs, and into the hall that led to Grant's cabin. Once inside, she saw several men standing around, muttering. Her gaze moved to the bed, where she saw him lying there, unconscious. She fought her tears. “
Mon Dieu
! What happened exactly? I have to know.”

Eric went to her. “
Mademoiselle
, do not--”

“I must know who did this…”

“I do not think--”

“Tell me, anyone who knows.”

A man stepped forward. “
Mademoiselle
, I believe the gentleman's name was
Bordeaux
. That is what his second called him.”

She choked back a cry, and then a rising storm of anger replaced her shock. “Nicholas Bordeaux? You're certain.”

“
Oui
,” he answered curtly.

“Take me to see this man,” she demanded.

“We do not know,
Mademoiselle
--”

“Locate him and take me there. Don't, Eric,” she said as he stepped closer. “You cannot stop me so do not try.”

He nodded and gave the order to three of Grant's men. “This is unwise, I fear,” he muttered as they left the room to walk the companionway.

She frowned. “You may be right at that. But, I have ties to this
Monsieur
Bordeaux and he has just crossed the line.” She could not believe that her uncle had been wrong about her second fiancé as well. For an intelligent man, he had very poor taste in suitors.

* * * *

Fara leaned over the bed to place a cool, damp cloth on Grant's forehead. The man frustrated her to no end. Not only had he interfered with her life before he left for the Caribbean on business, but he also felt obligated to defend her honor as soon as he returned. It seemed very grand of him to take such responsibility for her. Though a part of her wished to fight her own battles, it was nice to have someone willing to do so when she was not capable. And though Grant's wound, a piercing to his stomach, was usually not a serious one, his progress was slow and the fever seemed to grip him overlong. She wondered if Nicholas Bordeaux had meant to harm Grant thus.

The thought that Grant might die because of her, because of unresolved associations, distressed her but also left her feeling suddenly empty. She would not let him die for no reason. She would not have that on her conscience. Grant was an honorable man and would not challenge Nicholas without reason. She could not say the same of
Monsieur
Bordeaux.

Her gaze traveled Grant’s body. He was flushed from fever, yet he still held appeal even when wounded. Damn you, she thought. He made her feel things for him and never tried to hide the fact that she had piqued his interest as well. If her uncle were still alive, she would not feel so conflicted. There would be a constant sense of duty and propriety and she would not be torn by the fact that though she found Grant frustrating sometimes, he made her feel very female and protected.

Fara stepped away from the bed and began to pace relentlessly. He was not doing well and a hard knot formed in her stomach as she remembered earlier that day when the crew's doctor came to check on Grant. The doctor had done his routine perusal and redressed Grant's bandages, but then he frowned. As he glanced at Fara, he muttered, “Much the same. How odd.”

When she inquired of his comment, he told her it was normal to have a fever when fighting infection. It was, however, strange that a young man like Grant would be affected in such a way, unless the wound had been more harrowing than everyone thought. If the infection was more internal, then it could be worse. And then what?

Her curiosity quickly became devastation when he replied, “The men were desperate when they asked you here. They had reason to feel this way. If you're worried at all about the captain's progress, you should start praying. Only a miracle could break this fever.”

Though her heart faltered at his reply, she had been quick to retort that medicine was not an exact science. Then he'd shaken his head and said he only wished he was wrong.

So did Fara. Grant was too young to let go. There was so much more to live for. If he died, she would feel as if she'd done nothing to help him. She would feel responsible for what happened. After all, he had rushed to defend her, willing to risk everything…his reputation and his life. Ever since they'd met, it seemed he had taken everything that happened to her upon himself. She was indebted to him for the protection he constantly offered. Grant Hill was entirely too honorable and she couldn't help admiring that about him.

Gingerly, she began to bathe him with the cloth. When she reached his wound, she tried hard not to inflict any more pain than he already had. The ship, however, decided on that moment to lurch and her hand slipped.

Grant moaned, his brow furrowed in discomfort and Fara touched his pale cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I will try to make it better.” She wet the cloth again and began to bathe him once more, determined to drain the fever from him. The doctor seemed to believe nothing more could be done to save the captain. Fara felt it was important to try; she couldn't give up on him. She simply had to give him a reason to hang on.

She did anything she could, desperate to fight against the fever. She bathed him, fed him warm broth, read to him from his library of sailor's tales and captain's journals. Some nights, she simply sat near the bed and watched him, compelled to express her gratitude for his bravery in some way.

She felt some part of him had to be aware of her attempts to revive him and began to talk to him, recalling the night they'd met, the dance they'd shared at the harvest ball, and how desolate she had felt when he'd left for the Caribbean. She reprimanded him in one breath for his stupidity, his carelessness in accepting Nicholas Bordeaux's challenge, and then revered him in the next, commenting on the selfless act that might cost his life. Fara spoke to him of her childhood, and told him of his crew's concern and devotion. She begged him to wake up so that he could continue fulfilling his duties as their captain. She spoke of how she missed the way he followed her and made her want to hit him, except that she was taught better than acting out such notions.

At one point, Eric came into the captain's quarters and begged her to take a break from her vigil. She denied him. It was an obligation of the heart; she knew that now.

Eric sighed. “
Mademoiselle
Bellamont, you must not stay so long in this kind of company. Tis' not good for your well-being. Come above with the rest of the crew. Physician will care for the captain and then you may return to him.”

Fara frowned. She understood his concern, but he was overstepping his bounds as Grant's manservant. “You cannot know what I need, Eric. I'll be fine here. Please let me stay with him.”

His eyes searched her face for some kind of reassurance. “Very well,” he replied, “but I will fetch you for your dinner in a few hours.”

“
Merci
, Eric.”

He nodded and left the room quietly. Fara turned back to stare at Grant's figure on the large bed. He was naked from the waist up and a bandage covered the expanse of his chest. “It's my fault,” she whispered. “It would not have happened if Nicholas hadn't interfered...”

On the pillow, his head turned as if his senses were tuned to her. “Fara...” he moaned. His eyes were closed and his face was flushed from the fever.

She grasped his warm hand. “I'm here,” she said, choking on her tears. She swallowed convulsively; her feelings were so great in that moment. “Please do not die,” she whispered.

* * * *

Fara continued her vigil as much as humanly possible, except in the times that sleep and food were required. One morning, Fara came to, lifting her head from her arm. She still wore her dress from the previous day and Eric was standing by the doctor. They proceeded to examine Grant. The doctor, a thin man, straightened and glanced at her. “His breathing is more normal now. He seems relaxed. His fever remains, but it is very mild. I do not know what you did,
Mademoiselle
, but the crew will bless you for it. And you will always have my respect.” He bowed to her.

Fara frowned, too weary to be flattered. “But, he is not well yet. He is not awake.”

“No. But, he is better. He will be alert in a day or so, I should think.” He sidestepped Eric, and then approached her, gently grasping her arms. “You are looking pale and thin. You have been vigilant for far too long. Eric should have encouraged you to join us on deck more.”

Fara nodded. “He did try,
Monsieur
, but I was stubborn. It's because of me that
Capitaine
--”

“I know. Any good man would have done the same. You must be very grateful, but now you must think of your own health. Eric, if you would send some food from the galley for
Mademoiselle
Bellamont?”

“Of course.” Grant's manservant left the cabin to see to this need.

The doctor touched her head in a gesture that seemed fatherly. “The captain will be fine now, I promise. Can I persuade you to accompany me on deck? The sun would do you some good.”

She nodded. Her spirits lifted from his learned assurance, she let him lead her upstairs. Over the meal, the crew tried to keep her spirits up with yarns of their many adventures. Her mind, however, kept drifting to her so-called fiancé.
Monsieur
Bordeaux must be confronted, she thought. What he had done to Grant was inexcusable. She had been aboard
La Voyageur
for little over a week and no one had mentioned anything about the man who'd challenged their captain. It was time to do something about this.